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Wed., Sept. 26, 2018 Gonna  write  this  intro  this  week  before  I  head  out  across  the  city  for  my  brother’s  band’s  gigsssggssgsg.  I’m  drinking  a  beer,  the  second  of  the  night.  I’m  gonna  get  another one real quick. . .  Here’s Fall Out Boy.  Well, you know. Things are happening.  This fresh beer.  I  got  my  fifth  self-published  book  (this  year)  yesterday,  the  proof  came  in  the  mail  from  South  Carolina  within  a  day  or  two.  I  didn’t  expect  that!  ​My  Vagina  Won’t  Look  Like  This  Forever.  I​  took the book to the bar for happy hour, walking through the  streets  of  South  Philly  in  the  pouring  rain  while  holding  an  umbrella,  my  feet  and  socks and ankles getting soaked. I’ve always, always made sacrifices for my writing.  I  got  there  and  there  was  a  beautiful  bartender  serving  drinks.  I  often  wonder  why . . . No, I won’t get into it here. Let’s continue.  I  sat  down  with  my  Proof.  The  proof  of  living  with  two  women!  I  was  only  then  becoming  a  writing  machine.  Anything  else,  that  was  incompatible  with  life.  That’s  when  I  knew  I  had  to  get  my  shit  together.  I  had  to  learn  how  to  be  just  a  regular person. That was important. I got that from Ginsberg’s diaries.  Just become a regular person. Get a regular job. And write. That’s all there is to it.  I  read  the  book.  It  wasn’t  bad.  Five  years  ago,  that’s  when I wrote it. I was still  surreptitiously  pretentious, clueless, a vagabond, demented, heartbroken, dramatic and  very  interested  in  the  world.  I  listened  to  the  girls  with  whom  I  was  living.  They  had  plenty  of  shit  to  say!  I  learned  and  learned  and  learned.  They  stuffed  an  MFA  in  between my ears. And then some.  I  read  100  pages  of  the  proof  yesterday.  There  are  some  mistakes.  But  I  like  knowing  that  I  can  edit  my  own  shit  and  I’m  responsible  for  my  mistakes,  now.  I’ll  have  to  read  more  to  get  it  finished.  What  does  it  matter?  It’s  a  personal  accomplishment.  Great.  The  other  night,  I  saw  a  woman  with  whom  I  used  to  be  in  love.  She  told  me  all  about  her  new  (halfway) house. She said things to me that made me tremble inside.  I  kept  my  poker face. I saw roses in her eyes, crawling out of her eardrums. She spoke  and  the  wind  twisted  inside  of  me.  She  was  still  beautiful,  still  made  the  same  facial  expressions.  I  gave  her  two  of  my  stupid  books  and  a  dumb  painting  I’d  made.  She  called me a beautiful soul.  I had missed her more than I realized.  I  walked  back  to  my  apartment  (to  the  subway  first)  in  the  drenching  rain  of  Philadelphia at night.   


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it’s the next day and stuff     and now it’s the next day, listening to Tom Petty  work done (no joints) just this light bulb above my dome  blackout drunk at my brother’s show last night  left  walking through Philadelphia  WHO AM I?  I was gone, ribald fashion  down into the subway, what was I  THINKING  I was blackout drunk down in  that subway  and I went south, I think, breaking a  few laws on the way to a  Wendy’s  regaining consciousness, somewhat  HELLO, YES I’LL HAVE A HASHTAG  WITH FRIES  NO WAIT  A FROSTY    wait, what?    I blinked, laughing, twisting myself around some chairs and get-  ting back out into the street—did I go to the subway again?  did I walk home? I can’t  remember    in  the  morning,  I  was  surprised  that  it  was  morning  and  I  got  up  with  a  terrible  hangover,  laughing  at  myself  in  the  shower,  dressed,  after  shaving—I  walked  outside  with  gelled  and  combed  hair  saying  hello  to  a  neighbor  and  waiting  at  the  Dunkin  Donuts  on  Washington  Ave.  for  my  water,  coffee,  and  sandwich  and  the  guy  there  gave  me  an  Eagles  donut  because  it  had  taken  so  long,  I  got  back  to  my  apartment,  still laughing, hungover, and I taught three classes to Chinese kids, in a row 


when it was over I felt sick, laughing still  YOU BASTARD  all that whiskey and rock and roll on  an empty  stomach    I was a pro  there have been many times I’ve gotten home  when I never realized how, I couldn’t understand it  in the morning  I wondered  about  how  I did it, and why?    so I get up again  to grab another beer  staring out across New Jersey, the city in the way  the lights from the bridges, the Delaware River out there  the planes coming in from who knows where    the days roll by  and I’ve got nothing left to say  just listening to Tom Petty, drinking beer under  this bright light bulb  that continues to  shine.   


IT’S AMAZING     I’m  back  from  the  grocery store now and I bought some more beer. Arrogant Bastard  Ale! HAVE AT THEE.  I also bought some food. Coffee, water. Tee-pee for my bunghole.  The  night  was  soft,  and  it remains so. The clouds drifting by in the soft light of  nighttime.  I  hear  violins,  chanting,  verbose  vernacular  somewhere  in  the background.  Another  dimension?  Maybe.  That’s  where  I’m  able  to  pick  these  words,  now,  from  somewhere  else.  It  was  always  easy  for  me.  The  writing.  Everything  else,  ​that  was  impossible.  ​Now  it’s  like  a  walk  to  the  grocery  store.  I laugh at the clouds. I love seeing  the  people  of  Philadelphia.  They  are  beautiful,  demented,  sad,  bored,  attractive,  ugly,  predictable,  diverse.  It’s  a  great  American  city.  What  makes  it great is the people. Not  the grammar of degenerate writers. The people of Philadelphia make life worth living.  I  can  remember  when  I  was  younger.  As  I  get  older,  I’m  learning  how  much  I’m  capable  of  remembering  everything.  (Just  not  how  I  got  home  last  night!)  Being  able  to  watch  my  brother,  younger,  playing  music  in  a  band.  I’ve  been  doing  that  for  years.  Centuries,  even.  One  of  the  first  times  I  ever  thought  differently about life and  family,  music,  and  myself.  That  was  when  I  saw  him  playing  music,  it  was  on a video  that  was  shown  on  the  morning  announcements  in  high  school.  There  he  was,  at  about  7:30  in  the morning. Swinging a microphone around, shaking his head back and  forth. My brother was emo! ​And so was I.​ But he wasn’t afraid to express himself.  That was something I lacked. For quite some time.  So he taught me that. And I kept it inside of my . . . heart.  He was a good soul. And still is. And he always will be.  That’s what’s amazing.  I’ve  always  learned  from  the people close to me in my life. Whenever I’ve done  some  fucked  up  shit,  they’ve  always  put  me  in  my  place. And I’ve been able to return  that  favor  to  others.  Patience.  People  were  always  patient  with  me.  While  my brother  was  finding  his  place  in  his  (emo)  life,  I  was  on  my  own  path.  Finding  some sense of  patience in the years of traveling, working, drinking, over-analyzing everything.  Who was my brother back then? Who was I?  He  had  this  strong  identity.  I  had  a  dirty  mouth  and  I  didn’t  give  a  fuck  about  anything.  Today,  that’s  how  I  know  that  I’m  a  writer.  Or  at  least  I  think  I  know  that  I’m a writer. 


Seeing him  on  the  morning  announcements.  Seeing  him  playing  with  another  band  last  night.  I’ve  been  watching  my  brother  play  in  myriad  bands  since  time  immemorial.  (A  stupid  phrase.)  He  was  caterwauling  into  the  darkness.  I  whimpered.  He  rocked  the  fuck  out.  I  hung  my  head.  He  unleashed  himself  out  into  the  world,  unabashed,  and  he  didn’t  give  two  licks  about  what  anybody  thought  of  him,  his  art,  his  music,  his  life,  who  he  was  and  the  person  he  was  becoming,  as  ever,  into  the  future—of  infinity.  I  was  a  toothless  wuss.  I  sang  my  songs  in  bathrooms  with  the  door closed. I sang when no one else was around.  What  did  he  know  that  I  didn’t?  I  didn’t  understand.  I  was the older brother. I  had to learn that the hard way.  YOU  FUCKER,  he  told  me  once  (in  other words, not verbatim). I LOOK UP  TO YOU. STOP BEING SUCH A !$#%#@%@%^@%^@%^.  I heard him out. He was right.  People  send  you  on  a  new  path.  I  was  glad  to  learn  from  my  brother.  He  sent  me  money  when  I  was  trying  to  be  a  writer.  A  worthless  profession,  unless  you’re  ready to give it all up for a few words, sentences, paragraphs, etc. For what?  To  define  the love in your life that was there all along. But you just didn’t see it.  Because  you  thought  you  knew  what  you  were  talking  about,  only  you  had your head  so far up your own ass that you couldn’t see straight.  Arrogant Bastard Ale. How are you tonight?  Well, what have I been getting at?  Love. Love, brother.  That’s all there really is.  Love  of  life.  Love  of  beer.  Love  of sunlight, mornings where you laugh at your  own  stupidity.  Love  of  the  future,  uncertain.  Love  of  death.  Love  of  the  invisible  dimensions,  unpredictable.  Love  of  crossing  the  street  and  not  being  self-conscious.  Love of the self. Love of family, even if they say corny shit.  Love of Led Zeppelin.  Love of multivariate studies, epidemiology. Love of . . . ​what?  Cut the bullshit. Would ya?  You got the love I need.  You got so much.  So much. . .  So much. . .  Many  times  I’ve  gazed  upon  the  open  road.  Many  times  I’ve  lied.  Many  times  I’ve  listened.  Many times I’ve wondered how much there is to know. . .  I live for my dreams.  And a pocket fulla gold.   


RECORD OF THE WEEK

Haven’t been listening to anything in particular, busy. But clips of Tony Soprano have  been incessant in my interior amygdala. Maybe the greatest philosopher of the  late-20th to early-21st centuries. James Gandolfini was a genius in this role. 


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Profile for Bryan William Myers

Everything We Are Taught Is False #4  

My Vagina Won't Look Like This Forever. Drunk at my brother's show in Philly. Hungover in the morning. Pictures of Philly. Tony Soprano is m...

Everything We Are Taught Is False #4  

My Vagina Won't Look Like This Forever. Drunk at my brother's show in Philly. Hungover in the morning. Pictures of Philly. Tony Soprano is m...

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